Remain in Light: Happy Solstice

Time is what a clock measures
-Albert Einstein

A clock is anything that undergoes irreversible change
-Paul Erker

Stonehenge was built roughly 5,000 years ago on Salisbury Plain in England. It took 1500 years and countless people to gather the huge monoliths and arrange them in a circle. The resulting structure aligned with celestial bodies to show movements of the sun and the moon. Possibly it was used to develop farming calendars, critical for growing food and sustaining life. Or maybe druids relied on it to plan ceremonies during solstices and equinoxes, solar and lunar eclipses. There are no written histories or instructions for this giant clock, but it still stands, silently marking the passing of time.

The Massachusetts Institute of Technology, better known as MIT, is a modern bastion of science spread over 168 acres along the Charles River in Cambridge. The main cluster of buildings is connected by The Innite Corridor, a 0.16 mile long stretch that oers the only direct indoor route between the east and west parts of campus. In the mid 1970s, a phenomenon marked in passing by students — that this hallway would occasionally ll with light, was brought, in the true spirit of the school, under rigorous scientic scrutiny. Distances were measured, changes in light intensity charted and graphed. These calculations yielded accurate predictions for what is known today as MITHenge. Twice a year, The Innite Corridor lines up lengthwise with the position of the sun as it sets, so that the whole corridor lls with radiance. The MIT community consults these forecasts and gathers to witness the events in mid-November and then again in late January.

January, referred to as IAP, Independent Activities Period, is a time for academic exploration and experimentation. Most students return after the December holidays for a round of more recreational classes — to try a new dance, play Baroque keyboard works, maybe do a language intensive, or work on racquetball serves. There are fewer students and a lighter atmosphere prevails.

But January 2022 was dierent. The Omicron variant had pitched Boston back into lockdown. Many classes were canceled, gatherings of more than ve people were prohibited, strict COVID testing mandates were upheld. The doors to access all buildings, including the Innite Corridor, were locked. In order to enter, students and employees had to prove that they didn’t have COVID, hadn’t been near or exposed to anyone with COVID, had received the vaccine and a booster, had a valid ID, and promised to wear masks. Only after attestations and conrmations were uploaded into the MIT COVID system would IDs turn red „locked“ lights to green, allowing access. Few students bothered, instead waiting the month out at home before returning for the spring semester. The place was empty.

Each workday in January, I left home wrapped in my warmest clothes, hat, mittens, and a thick N95 mask to ride the bus and T to Kendall Square. I worked by myself in the vacant music library: lights o, doors closed, away from students, faculty, and colleagues. The Ziegler Athletic Center (Z Center) on the far side of campus remained open, and so even though winter temperatures were in the 20s, I crossed the distance for a chance to swim in the Olympic-sized competition pool before heading home.

On the 27th, When I came out of the Z Center, the sun was still up. I watched my shadow stretch in front of me, but it wasn’t until it hit the trac on Mass Ave ahead of me that I realized the signicance of the date. Instead of hustling through the main complex to get to the T station, I could detour up to the 3rd level of the Innite Corridor. Today was January‘s MITHenge.

I swiped my ID and opened the door. I knew that I was soon going to be leaving my library job for good, so this was my last chance. For over 15 years, my timing had never coincided with this phenomenon, but today, swimming, chance and sunshine had created the possibility. I got to the third oor, and like the rest of campus, it was vacant. Maybe only empty because there were still 45 minutes to wait? I sat on a bench at the at the far end of the corridor and experienced another rare wonder:

Quiet.

30 minutes until peak.
A lone student came up the backstairs and passed by, entered a classroom halfway down the corridor, and shut the door behind her.

15 minutes until peak.
Three students came and stood in a row. Their masks were in place, muing their speech, but I could still hear the excitement in their voices.
“It’s usually full of people.”

“We might be the only ones to witness it this time.”
A young man at the very end of the corridor — the west end, in front of the huge panes of glass — hovered in uncertainty.
“No, he’s gotta move, he’s gonna block it!”
“C’mon, just stand to the side,” one of them said under her breath, too far away for him to hear. “Why do people do that?”
“Oh, he’s moving.”

10 minutes until peak.
Doors opened along the corridor, and gures ducked out to stand against the walls. Researchers in lab coats stood or crouched next to students, leaving the center of the hallway free. They were so coordinated they looked like they were part of a mall ash mob ready to lower their masks and break into song: „Ode to Joy“ or „You Light Up My Life.“

We were together, but we stood COVID apart, waiting for the rising glow.

4 minutes
Murmurs behind masks.

3 minutes
“I wonder if we’re really going to think it’s such a big deal.” “Yes it‘s gonna to be!”

2 minutes
Another group came up the backstairs and everyone made room.
“I’m gonna video this.”
“You can’t get the right angle, there are too many people in the way now.” “Just experience it.”

I thought back to an afternoon many Septembers ago. I had gone to see my piano teacher for the rst lesson of the fall semester. That August, she had met up with her son‘s family in London. While he was occupied with a math conference, she took her granddaughter by the hand, boarded a train and took her to Stonehenge. They inspected the ancient wonder and marveled at its age. The awe was still in her voice as she described it to me. I felt that way now.

1 minute
Collective silence of anticipation. We held our breath. Looked to the windows. It began.
There in the Innite we experienced the return of light.

180 generations have passed since the druids entered that stone circle to wait. They never wrote down how or why, but their mathematical accuracy and intention is captured in the stones. We build our repositories of research and learning, point our technology up into the solar system, then back into the universe that is every cell, and record all of it. Mere chance in how these buildings were laid out allows us to bridge space and time and stand with the ancients to wait for the sun.

Then we turn to the poets, who have always known the truth. Days get shorter. Time rolls us in its blanket of stars. We whisper stories to each other through the dark — tales of adventure, foreign lands, train rides with granddaughters, memories of wonder. We face west. When the setting sun unfurls its parting promise, we believe. We feel its warmth.

Our hearts remain in light.